


Friends in Antiva

by Smooth_Kreminal



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Antiva, Antivan Crows, Assassins, Multi, Murder, Past Relationship(s), Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-19 04:49:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15502656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smooth_Kreminal/pseuds/Smooth_Kreminal
Summary: Leliana's spies have been following Zevran as he traverses his homeland, and unsurprisingly, this elf has a past. His Warden lover can only watch and listen as every awful second of his past is retold like a legend, and there's nothing he can do to stop it.





	1. 9:31 Dragon

_ My Dear Warden,  _

 

_ I hope this letter finds you in good health, although I’m not truly worried. You survived the Blight, slayed an Archdemon, and even managed to fend off my initial assassination attempt. You’re nearly immortal.  _

_ You really should come visit; the weather is far more hospitable here than it will ever be in Ferelden. Why, I could show you Antiva city! I’m sure the threat of assassination around every corner and violent, unmasked corruption will make you feel right at home. That is, of course, assuming we ever make it out of bed.  _

_ I am getting ahead of myself, no? You have royal matters to sort out where you are, and I have a lovely long list of people who sorely need a dagger between the ribs. Each to their own, I suppose.  _

_ I heard that the gentle bard with the voice of a nightingale is back in your company - it almost makes me long to go back to the good old days of fighting darkspawn and sleeping in bogs and what have you. Ah, what an adventure.  _

_ Anyway, my warden. I didn’t write you just for pleasure - if I did, there’d most certainly be drawings. I’ve heard about our dear Leliana’s little network (a spiderweb, as it were), and I’ve noticed the shadows. Now don’t get me wrong, I appreciate that you or her are checking up on me occasionally; it makes me feel very important! But I fear you might find something you… do not like, shall we say.  _

_ My story is not a happy one, you know this already, my love. But what can I say? Misery only generates more misery, yes?  _

_ I pray you’ll remember me for our time together, not who I was before.  _

 

_ Hopefully in your thoughts (especially the dirty ones),  _

_ Zevran Arainai _

 

***

 

The warden’s fingers dug into the parchment, creases forming on the page as every word was dissected and scrutinised. What could Zevran possibly be talking about? 

The mystery was so distracting that the warden hardly noticed as the chamber doors meekly swung open, revealing what appeared to be a lone chantry sister. That is, a chantry sister with a bow slung across her shoulder and an official-looking scroll hidden in the folds of her robes. 

“Leliana!” The warden tore their eyes away from the letter and quickly got to their feet, “I’m sorry, please come in.” 

“Thank you,” the red-haired woman smiled warmly and made her way to the cushioned chair opposite, gesturing for her friend to sit. She hesitated before speaking again, almost remorseful.

“I have news that you might need to hear.” 

“About Zevran, I suppose?” 

Leliana nodded gently, revealing the roll of paper and passing it to the warden, an apology in her eyes. 

The warden nodded thanks, before gently lifting the already-broken seal. 

“This ought to be good.”


	2. 9:13 Dragon

Zevran wanted to feel special, like his destiny was in his grasp, his future adorned with gems of fame and fortune, but really he just felt tired. 

A year of training that once seemed endless had gone, leaving him with nothing but the scars and fading faces of those that had fallen at his will. Zevran was certain he wouldn’t miss it, but he was at a loss regarding certainty. Was killing all his future was? 

He breathed in the dank air, the stench of wet leather familiar, yet strong enough to make him crinkle his nose. A year camped next to what can only be described as a cesspool, but the smell oddly comforting. 

A year ago, this room had bustled, wide eyed and terrified children, filling every space on the stained wooden floor, whimpering and sobbing. And then, it was only occupied by two. Zevran sighed, collecting his thoughts as there was little else to collect, and got to his feet. 

A sound startled him, the elf’s brown eyes met browner, and a relieved smile found his lips as he recognised the figure in the doorway. 

“What are you doing, Zev?” Taliesen asked, having likely witnessed his friend’s hunched-over brooding that neither of them had time for. Zevran tersely stepped towards him, ready to go. 

“Ah, just saying goodbye to the old dump.” Zevran laughed it off, brushing past the human and strolling confidently into the burning sunlight, wincing as his eyes adjusted. Their carriage sat waiting, ready to whisk them off to the House to truly be accepted into the folds. But Taliesen wasn’t finished. 

“The Crows don’t have time for these sentiments,” Taliesen warned ominously, “After all we’ve been through how can you still think you’re untouchable?” His voice was light, but his words were not, and Zevran sighed once more. 

“Yes, well, I doubt it will happen again.” Zevran dismissed his concerns, making his way to the old, wooden carriage. He knew Taliesen only had his best interest at heart, but the man’s acceptance of Crow rules made it seem as if he believed the pair were little more than tools. 

As true as it may be, it was a frightening thought for the young elf. 

Before either boy could reach the carriage, the doors swung open, revealing Master Eoman. His scowl was prominent as ever, perhaps even more so on the day that his two only surviving students were given the slightest ounce of respect. That said, graduating his school of death hardly made them untouchable; Taliesen was undeniably right in that respect. 

“Master Eoman,” Taliesen bowed quickly, and Zevran followed suit. 

“We don’t have time for that dogshit.” Eoman sneered in response, not even looking in their direction as he inspected his nails. His Ferelden accent didn’t suit the cursing, but should anyone tell him such a thing, they would surely lose their tongue at the mercy of something far sharper. 

Both boys scrambled into the short carriage, sitting opposite their master in awkwardly close proximity, knees touching although neither party said anything. Taliesen and Zevran didn’t dare breathe a word, even as the carriage started to move and their old home became a speck in the distance as the horses made a steady pace. 

It was strange, Zevran noted, in all the time since his purchase, he couldn’t recall a time where he had actually lost sight of the leather market their crumbling prison had been situated over. 

He felt like he had lived and died a thousand times, however, and any weakness or sentimentality was pushed somewhere deep under his leather armour. 

Hours could have passed, or maybe it was seconds; dissociation was perhaps the only thing that got Zevran through the training. He had a knack for it too - that couldn’t be denied - but one can only murder so many of their friends before they start to forget how to think. 

Hours or seconds, nonetheless, they had arrived. The exterior of House Arainai looked like it could be the home to princes and sovereigns; ironic that all that was behind those doors were cold blooded killers. Zevran didn’t dare say anything in front of the disgruntled Master, besides Taliesen wouldn’t see the humour in it. 

Zevran had imagined that such a place would have been eerie and dank, much like the place he was stationed between grueling training sessions, perhaps teeming with birds that the Antivan Crows had been named for. Surprisingly, such a place was unsatisfyingly normal. 

While secluded, the building itself could have come straight out of Antiva city, four storeys high, built of saffron coloured bricks, a dozen arched white-paned windows per wall. It was beautiful, and yet disappointing to the young elf. This didn’t feel special at all.  

The doors swung open, two masked men standing stationary by the steps of the carriage, waiting for the boys to make their exit. Both hesitated, Taliesen looking to Master Eoman for guidance, who simply tutted and turned away scoldingly. 

“Hurry now. The Grandmaster isn’t a patient man.” 

They needed no more motivation, the Qunari’s reputation reaching even the deepest corners of Antiva. The man was a legend - no, a curse - the name  _ Talav _ only uttered by the mouths of those most desperate or fearful. This in mind, Zevran decided that he was not a man who would appreciate being kept waiting by a pair of wannabe assassins, and Taliesen likely felt the same way. 

Taliesen left the carriage before Zevran, eyes closed as he breathed in gulps of fresh air - a luxury they had not been gifted in quite a while. The elf’s feet hadn’t even touched the ground when Eoman released an aggravated sigh and snatched up his arm, grip as fast and powerful as lighting, but Zevran refused to cry out in shock or pain. 

“If you thought my training was hell, trust me, this will be a hundred times worse.” His promise was blunt and yet powerful, like the swing of a mace against unprotected flesh. This shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but Zevran didn’t quite believe it. 

“They won’t make excuses for you because of your age, and they won’t protect you no matter how much coin you earn them.” He hadn’t turned to face his master, but he didn’t need to in order to feel the intense stare being directed at him from his watery blue eyes. “They own you, until they don’t want you anymore.” 

“Thank you.” Zevran said curtly after a moment’s hesitation. He wondered how many times Master Eoman had issued that warning. He wondered how many times it had been relevant. 

Zevran didn’t feel so special anymore. 

Eoman released his arm, but he hardly felt the blood returning to his fingertips, or tasted the untainted air as his mind swam, impending threats weighing heavy on his person. 

“What are you doing, Zev?” Taliesen asked absently, walking with what could almost be perceived as abandon towards the guided doors, the masked men in tow. Zevran sensed that he was just as scared, if not more, but that was the exact weakness that would get them killed. Neither would dare discuss it - Maker forbid they entertain their weaknesses. 

“Nothing, brother,” Zevran replied just as absently, a wicked grin on his face in favour of the fear he felt, “I just can’t wait to become a real Antivan Crow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hate this and probably won't continue unless someone asks. that's grand, hey? "comment or i DELETE THIS"   
> seriously though, my motivation is gone. 'poof'. goodbye.   
> i think i just need someone to pander to.


End file.
